37: Chapter 37: Prince Posts on Instagram: Chinese People Are Manufacturing Biological Weapons

Beef tallow bubbled with a "sizzle" in the two-meter cast-iron pot.

Fifty kilograms of pure beef fat, tossed in four batches; the oil churned at the bottom of the pot, sending a thick, cloying scent of fat soaring into the sky above the helipad.

The comments section had already begun.

[Is this pot... a bathtub?]

[Brother Li, are you sure you're cooking and not smelting steel?]

[Watching a commoner set up a rural giant pot on the helipad of a seven-star hotel in real-time; life is truly magical.]

Li Li ignored the comments.

The beef tallow was seventy percent melted. He picked up a two-meter-long stainless steel ladle and flipped the unmelted chunks of fat.

"Beef tallow needs to be rendered thoroughly over low heat."

He said to the camera.

"If you rush, it burns; if it burns, it's ruined."

Fahd chimed in from behind: "Li, can't this pot of yours cook three camels at the same time?"

"Can't."

"Why?"

"Camels are too lean; they don't hold flavor. Your Middle East cattle won't do either; you need Sichuan yellow cattle."

Comments: [??? The Prince got rejected, hahahaha.]

The beef tallow was thoroughly rendered.

Li Li grabbed the old ginger from the workbench—the kind cut into thick slices—a full three kilograms.

He dumped it all in.

"Bang."

The oil splashed half a meter high.

Fahd's folding chair slid back another ten centimeters.

"Ginger slices to sear the base. Removes the gamey smell."

Li Li used the ladle to press the ginger slices into the oil base and stir-fry them. The pot emitted a dense "crackle," and the spicy aroma of ginger mixed with the rich fragrance of beef tallow, spreading in all directions.

Jiang Rumu stood behind the workbench, holding a tablet. She was helping him monitor Su Wantang's Weibo updates while acting as a human conveyor belt—handing over whatever Li Li called for.

"Doubanjiang."

Jiang Rumu picked up the box of Pixian Doubanjiang. Six jars. One kilogram each.

"All of it?"

"All of it."

Six jars of Doubanjiang were smashed into the pot.

The dark red paste collided with the golden beef tallow, and the surface of the pot turned from translucent to a murky dark red. Li Li held the long-handled ladle with both hands and stirred. The high heat forced the red oil out of the Doubanjiang, turning the entire pot into a miniature volcano.

The comments exploded—

[Six jars of Doubanjiang! Six! My family eats one jar for half a year!]

[This isn't stir-frying a soup base; this is manufacturing a chemical weapon.]

[Dubai Fire Department: Detected an attack on the Burj Al Arab helipad by Israel.]

After stir-frying for five minutes, the moisture in the Doubanjiang was completely evaporated, leaving only dark red oil and sauce residue in the pot.

"Chili peppers."

Jiang Rumu brought over two large basins from the workbench.

On the left: Erjingtiao, long-shaped, deep red, five kilograms.

On the right: Bullethead chili, short, thick, and round, five kilograms.

Ten kilograms of dried chili peppers.

Li Li first poured the Erjingtiao into the pot.

"This basin is for fragrance."

Then he poured in the Bullethead chilis.

"This basin is for killing."

Comments: [Ten kilograms of chili... what level of spiciness is this in Sichuan?]

Cen Ye appeared by the camera at some point, biting on an unlit cigarette, and held up one finger to the camera.

"Mildly spicy."

The comments section went blank for three seconds, then exploded.

[Mildly spicy??? Ten kilograms of chili is called mildly spicy???]

[Is the taste system of Sichuan people different from humans??]

[I'm a Hunan native and I'm crying just seeing this amount, okay?]

[Brother Ye, get a grip! This is enough to spice out all of Dubai!]

Cen Ye retreated with an innocent look.

The chili peppers in the pot rolled in the high-temperature oil, their skins becoming crispy and charred as the capsaicin was released. The air on the helipad began to become irritating.

Fahd sneezed.

He sneezed again.

He sneezed three times in a row.

He stood up, walked to the edge of the helipad, and took a deep breath facing the sea breeze. He turned back to look at the pot and sneezed again.

Comments: [The Prince has been spiced to tears, hahahaha.]

Li Li remained expressionless.

"Sichuan peppercorns."

Jiang Rumu handed over the bag of Sichuan peppercorns. Five kilograms. The grains were plump, dark red and purplish.

She placed the bag on the workbench and glanced down at the tablet.

"That's the third post."

Li Li didn't stop stirring with the ladle. "Su Wantang?"

"Yeah. New screenshot, reposts just passed ninety thousand."

"Content?"

"Same old routine. Taking things out of context." Jiang Rumu turned the tablet face down. "The bullets haven't stopped flying, don't rush."

Li Li didn't respond.

Splash—

Five kilograms of Sichuan peppercorns were poured in.

The moment the Sichuan peppercorns touched the hot oil, a numbing scent that tightened the scalp exploded. Everyone on the helipad shivered simultaneously.

Fahd had retreated to the very edge of the helipad, his hands gripping the railing, his face turned toward the Persian Gulf.

"Sichuan peppercorns are the soul." Li Li stirred the pot. "Hotpot without Sichuan peppercorns is like the Middle East without oil—"

He paused.

"Without a soul."

Comments: [Brother Li, you're saying this in front of the Prince???]

[This metaphor is so accurate it scares me.]

Fahd didn't understand Chinese, but judging by the suppressed laughter on his attendants' faces, the sentence was probably not very friendly.

He took out his phone and took a picture.

The image of red oil churning and chili peppers flying in the pot was captioned with a line of Arabic—

"Chinese people are manufacturing biological weapons on my helipad."

Two minutes later, this Instagram post had over five hundred thousand likes.

Li Li continued adding ingredients.

"Ciba chili paste."

Cen Ye translated for the livestream: "It's just dried chili peppers soaked until soft and pounded into a paste, used for thickening."

Someone in the comments made a typo—

[What is Magnetic Storm Chili???]

This comment was upvoted to the top.

Then the entire livestream started calling it "Magnetic Storm Chili."

[Magnetic Storm Chili! A new term is born!]

[I suggest Brother Li register the trademark: Magnetic Storm Chili ♦]

[With this pot, the wifi signal in all of Dubai will be spiced out.]

Li Li poured the pounded chili paste into the pot.

Five kilograms.

The color of the pot's surface turned completely deep red. The oil, chili, Sichuan peppercorns, and Doubanjiang churned and bubbled in the two-meter cast-iron pot, steam wrapping around the spicy scent and rushing into the sky, forming a visible red mist above the helipad.

A window on the 24th floor of the Burj Al Arab was pushed open, and someone poked their head out.

"What the hell is that smell?!"

The 23rd floor opened too.

The 22nd floor opened too.

Fragrant. Spicy. Pungent.

The three flavors stacked together, drifting along the Persian Gulf sea breeze toward the entire Jumeirah coastline.

Rock sugar. Five kilograms, crushed into pieces.

Dumped in.

Comments: [Adding sugar?? Adding sugar to Hotpot???]

Cen Ye popped out again.

"Rock sugar enhances freshness and neutralizes the spiciness, it's basic procedure. You guys don't understand."

Comments: [Dubai Special: Magnetic Storm Chili Flavored Sugar Water.]

Li Li ignored it. Star anise, cinnamon, bay leaves, fennel seeds, and black cardamom were all dumped in at once.

The final step.

Moutai.

He unscrewed a bottle.

"Baijiu enhances the fragrance."

Fahd turned his head by the railing: "Alcohol?"

"Yes. High-proof grain liquor."

"I don't drink alcohol."

"You don't have to drink it. The pot drinks it."

Pouring the Moutai along the edge of the pot—

"Whoosh"—

The flames shot up a meter and a half.

Fahd squatted.

A standard conditioned reflex; the Middle East prince shrank under the railing, his white robe crinkling.

Comments: [The Prince squatted!!! The Prince squatted!!!]

[I can laugh at this scene for a year.]

[Brother Li scared the Middle East prince into a squat with a bottle of Moutai; this is going down in history.]

The flames burned for three seconds, then extinguished. The mellow fragrance of the evaporated alcohol mixed with the spicy scent, and the air on the helipad turned into a state that made people want to cry and drool at the same time.

Li Li began to stir the soup base.

High heat to medium heat. Medium heat to low heat. The ladle swept across the bottom of the pot, the red oil churning.

He stirred circle after circle, the rhythm so steady it didn't look like he was cooking—

Livestream concurrent viewers: 63 million.

The traffic-driving effect of Fahd's Instagram post was still fermenting. Users from Arabic-speaking and English-speaking regions flooded in through the link, and the numbers started to take off.

70 million. 80 million.

Forty minutes later.

The soup base was finished.

The oil in the pot turned from dark red to deep red, then to a near-black sauce color. The chili, Sichuan peppercorns, and spices sank to the bottom of the pot, coated brightly by the beef tallow and red oil.

Li Li scooped a ladle and smelled it.

He nodded.

"It's done."

Jiang Rumu leaned over.

"Let me smell it."

She poked her head in and took a whiff.

She stepped back half a step. Choked by it.

But she was stubborn.

"Not bad."

Cen Ye couldn't stand it from the side: "Not bad? My mom would give a thumbs up if she smelled this soup base!"

Jiang Rumu blocked him with the handle of the ladle: "Your mom doesn't let you into the kitchen."

Cen Ye was choked up.

Li Li added water to the pot—four barrels of purified water, eighty liters, all dumped in with a splash.

Oil and water met. Red oil splashes exploded on the surface of the pot. A column of steam shot straight into the sky.

He turned the heat to the maximum.

"Wait for it to boil."

He took out his phone.

Livestream viewers—103 million.

Follower count: 15.02 million. Before leaving, it was over 6 million. One pot, an increase of nearly 9 million.

The blue text flashed on his wrist. He didn't look.

Because on the helipad, the Hotel Manager had already led more than twenty staff members out from the safety door in a single file.

Moving tables, laying tablecloths, setting cutlery, setting up the buffet station.

In less than twenty minutes, the other half of the helipad had been turned into an open-air banquet hall.

One hundred and eighty seats. Round tables, white tablecloths, silver cutlery. On each table, a single-person Hotpot induction cooker, accompanied by bowls, chopsticks, a slotted spoon, and a dipping sauce dish.

Cen Ye squatted in front of the first long table in the self-service food area, inspecting them one by one.

Potato slices, lotus root slices, baby bok choy, tofu, enoki mushrooms—he scanned them once and said nothing.

Second row. Beef slices, lamb slices, sliced so thin they were translucent. Shrimp paste, freshly made by the kitchen.

He nodded, still saying nothing.

Third row, his hand stopped.

Duck blood. Sweet potato vermicelli. Beef aorta. Fresh duck intestines.

"Who prepared this?"

The Hotel Manager walked over and explained in English: "Our Sous Chef Chen is from Chongqing. When he heard you were making Hotpot, he volunteered to supply these ingredients. His exact words were—'Hotpot without duck blood and sweet potato vermicelli has no dignity.'"

Cen Ye stood up.

Turned to find the Hotel Manager.

"Call him out. I want to become sworn brothers with him."

The Hotel Manager didn't respond to that.

Li Li scanned the dipping sauce area. Three rows of dipping sauces, with small signs in front of each ingredient. Labeled in three languages—Chinese, English, and Arabic.

"Minced garlic + sesame oil + oyster sauce + cilantro—Classic Chongqing combination"

"Sesame paste + fermented bean curd + chive flower sauce—Northern style heartwarming combination"

"Dry dipping dish (chili powder + crushed peanuts + sesame)—For the Brave"

The English translation for the last one was "For the Brave."

The Arabic was "للشجعان."

Li Li turned and gave a thumbs up to the Hotel Manager.

"Deserving of seven stars."

The Hotel Manager bowed. Polite. Professional.

A gasp came from behind.

Not loud, but very piercing. Standard British accent, undisguised confusion.

"What... is... that?"

Li Li turned around.

Fahd was standing in front of the third row of food tables.

His right hand was suspended in mid-air, his index finger pointing at a plate of white honeycomb-like thin slices, his left hand pointing at a plate of dark red tube-like objects next to it.

His whole posture—legs slightly apart, back leaning back, chin thrust forward.

"Li."

Fahd's index finger waved back and forth between the two plates.

"This white one—"

"Beef tripe."

"This red tube—"

"Beef aorta."

Fahd was silent for two seconds.

"This—"

He took a step forward, then half a step back.

"Can you eat it?"

"Not only can you eat it." Li Li picked up the slotted spoon for the Hotpot and waved it in front of Fahd. "When the soup base boils—you'll be fighting to eat it."

Fahd stared at the plate of beef tripe, his face written with four words: I don't believe it.

Li Li didn't explain further.

He looked down at his phone.

Su Wantang.

The fourth screenshot.

Reposts—120,000.

Jiang Rumu walked up behind him at some point, her voice very low.

"That's the fourth one. Do you have enough bullets?"

Li Li locked the screen.

"Let her finish firing hers first."

On the helipad, the Hotpot soup base in the two-meter giant pot began to bubble and boil, red oil bubbles bursting with a "gurgle," steam wrapping around the spicy scent and rushing into the night sky of the Persian Gulf.

One hundred and eighty tables, empty.

One hundred and eighty small Hotpots, waiting for the soup to be divided.

And the person who had been scolded by the entire internet all afternoon was standing on the most expensive helipad in the world, holding a slotted spoon, preparing to blanch some tripe.